AT TWILIGHT.
187
The soft little fingers of velvet By their mother's may never be pressed,Nor the rosy lips ever be lifted For nourishment up to my breast.God knows, for it seems that a darkness Is gathering over my head;That the light has gone out from my spirit, Where shadows droop heavy instead;
That death and the grave lie before me With banner already unfurled,When soon I shall sink into slumber, To waken no more in this world.May God in His goodness sustain me, When through the dark valley I tread;O Mary! my mother! support me, Uphold on thy bosom my head.
In pity look down on my children, When lifeless their mother shall lie,Or lay them in mercy beside me, As cold and unbreathing as I.The world is so dark and so gloomy, So full of the grief I have known—O Father! I tremble to leave them To meet the bleak storm all alone.
